by Rob Ashman
He heard it swish through the air.
‘Now let’s see how long you last.’
Jameson had booked three days’ emergency leave but it looked like he’d clearly underestimated.
15
Lucas looked out of the window at the apartment block across the street. The cool bay air blew through the drapes and he could smell the sea. The windows of apartment number forty-six Maple Crescent were alive with the dancing shadows from the TV. His watch read 3.15am, but it was fifteen minutes after midnight San Diego time.
The flight had been easy to arrange but tiresome to endure. They flew United Airlines out of Tallahassee International to San Diego, a six hour flight with a one hour stopover at Dallas. The time difference meant the journey took only four hours and, if Moran was right, they needed every hour they could get.
Lucas passed the binoculars to Harper.
‘Vickers’ place is on the fourth floor, third room from the left, starting at the fifth window along.’
Harper panned across the front of the building.
He could see both windows of the apartment. One was large, probably the living room, and the other was smaller, maybe a bedroom or kitchen.
A light flicked on in the small window. ‘Someone’s home,’ he said.
‘You did well to get us in here,’ said Lucas, referring to the two-bedroomed serviced apartment they were standing in. It was perfect for keeping the Vickers place under observation.
‘Yeah, a little better than being cooped up in a rental car.’
‘We need to stake out Vickers for awhile, see where he goes, who he meets, that kind of thing. We got his mug shot from his driver’s licence, so let’s see what he does in the morning. Time to turn in, we got an early start.’
‘We’re on a tight deadline, you know. How about we go over and knock on his door?’
‘How about we don’t. How about we do this properly and find out about the guy first? You know, like we used to do when we were cops.’
‘When I was a cop I would have kicked the door in,’ Harper said studying the flickering lights in the window.
‘That’s why you’re not a cop anymore.’
Harper skulked off to his room to grab a few hours’ sleep.
The sun cascaded early morning shadows across the street as Lucas leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the road to Maple Crescent. His eyes were set on the front door. The sky was flawless blue and the gentle warmth of the morning was a welcome change from the chill of Darien. Harper was around the back at the underground car park, clocking the tenants as they left for work. It was 6.30am.
People busied themselves with briefcases and pull-along bags. Some wore suits, while others wore casual business attire, and some had a look that said ‘I work in a place where we sit on beanbags all day and drink coffee with soya milk’. None of them was Gerry Vickers.
The morning rush kicked in at 7.15am, when people flooded out to catch public transport or miss the morning jam. Lucas struggled to eyeball every one and had to move in closer. Harper had a much more orderly line of motorists waiting for the exit barrier to lift on the underground car park. Some had passengers but most were singles. None was Gerry Vickers.
By 9.15am Harper appeared at the front, he waved at Lucas and cupped his hand to his mouth signalling ‘I need a coffee’. The parade of people had all but dried up and there was little point standing around any longer.
Ten minutes later Harper handed Lucas a brown paper bag containing hot coffee and pastries. Lucas was walking on the spot stretching his leaden legs, he wasn’t built to stand around for three hours’ straight.
‘Maybe he works from home,’ Harper said snapping the lid off the coffee.
‘Could be any number of reasons, but one thing’s for sure, he didn’t leave this morning.’
‘I suppose knocking on his door is a little too direct?’
‘Until we know more about him, I say we stake it out first.’
Lucas devoured a whole apple lattice in two bites. Staring at strangers was hungry work.
The stakeout routine lasted all day and into the night. They swapped positions to counter the boredom and ate fast food. By the end of a very long shift one thing was clear, Gerry Vickers had not left the building today.
They were back in their apartment and Lucas once again had the binoculars trained on the TV shadows dancing across the windows opposite.
‘Maybe he’s a hermit and that’s how he runs the business single-handed,’ he mused.
‘He must have an enormous phone bill ’cause he hasn’t left that building today.’
‘Your turn.’ Lucas went to hand the glasses over to Harper when a light came on in the smaller window. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s a quarter after midnight.’
‘I’m sure that happened yesterday.’
‘What did?’
‘That light came on at the same time.’
‘Maybe his favourite TV show finishes now and he needs to pee.’
Lucas scrutinised the windows.
‘Why doesn’t he close the drapes?’
‘Maybe he’s an exhibitionist. Let me see.’ Harper took the binoculars. ‘Now you mention it, they haven’t moved since we’ve been here.’
Lucas took back the binoculars.
After a while he said, ‘You know what? I don’t think Vickers is at home. I reckon the sneaky bastard has the lamps and TV operating off a timer.’
‘So now can we knock on the fucking door?’
Seven hours later, after a fitful night’s sleep, Harper stood in the doorway to their apartment with his shopping consisting of two plastic bags and a toolbox. He dumped them onto the bed and changed into blue overalls, safety shoes and a peaked cap. He swaggered into the living room carrying a clipboard and the toolbox.
‘What do you think?’ he said to Lucas who was eating breakfast.
‘You look like something Stephen King would write about.’
‘You got a better idea?’
‘Nope, and I sure as hell can’t match them duds you got there, boy.’ Lucas mimicked a hillbilly drone.
They had decided a more innovative approach was in order given their discovery the previous night, and hadn’t done the early morning stakeout. Which was a welcome change of plan.
‘Let’s go,’ Lucas said. It was 7.15am, rush hour at Maple Crescent apartments.
Harper crossed the road and timed his run to perfection. A young woman hit the green release button and pushed open the glass door to leave the building. She politely held it open for Harper to step inside carrying his toolbox and clipboard. The lobby was kitted out with wall-to-wall fake marble and chrome with a large glass-topped concierge desk against one wall. The desk was unmanned. The elevators were located five easy strides away across the shiny floor. Lucas took up his usual position on the opposite side of the street, leaning against a wall nursing a coffee.
Harper stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor and found door number forty-six. The corridor was bright and smelled of fresh paint. This was where you lived if you had a good job or wealthy parents.
He rapped his knuckles against the door – this was the risky part. If they were right then no one would answer, if they were wrong, Harper would have to make up a story about a maintenance issue and leave. He knocked again but no one came.
Harper knelt down and opened his toolbox. A man burst out of the apartment opposite, and Harper kept his head down.
‘Can I help you?’ The man was dressed in running gear with a backpack slung across one shoulder.
‘No, I’m fine, sir. Just here to fix this lock.’
‘Where’s Bernie?’
‘It’s not a job he can do, so they sent for me.’ Harper guessed Bernie must be the regular maintenance guy.
The man slammed his door behind him and rattled a key in the deadlock.
‘You ever see the person who lives in this apartment?’ Harper asked. ‘He said he would be in, but there�
��s no one home.’
‘No, never seen him, or her, or whoever lives there. And I’ve been here two years now.’
‘Oh well, I’ll just get on with it.’
The man walked past Harper and headed for the elevator. What’s the point of using the elevator on your way to your morning run? Harper thought.
He opened a small leather pouch and got to work. After a couple of minutes, the picks did their job and the lock sprung open. Harper tended to travel light, but wherever he went, his lock picks came with him. He stepped inside and put the lock on the latch.
The apartment opened up into a small hallway that led to a large living room with a sofa, two easy chairs and an oversized TV.
‘Hello!’ Harper called. ‘Maintenance guy. Anyone home?’
The place was silent apart from the hum of the refrigerator.
Harper moved from room to room. The apartment was empty. He crossed to the window, pulled one of the drapes closed and then opened it again. A signal to Lucas which said ‘Get your ass up here’.
The rooms were immaculate with not a coaster out of place. The cushions were puffed up on the sofa and the kitchen work surfaces were clean. Harper opened the refrigerator, it was empty. He opened the cupboards to find rows of matching crockery but no food. He stepped on the pedal bin to reveal a black plastic bag with nothing in it.
The front door edged open and Lucas bustled into the apartment. He closed the door and placed a clipboard on the table in the hall. Harper tossed him a pair of blue surgical gloves.
‘It’s empty. I don’t think anyone lives here,’ Harper said in hushed tones.
Lucas moved into the bedroom and opened up the closet, a row of empty hangers dangled from the rail. He looked behind the bedside table.
‘As we thought, the lights are on timers,’ he said spotting the timing device plugged in the socket.
‘So is the TV,’ Harper replied. ‘Vickers doesn’t live here, or if he does he cleared the place out before a long vacation.’
They checked the drawers but found nothing.
‘It’s as clean as the day he first took the keys.’
‘It is, but take a look at the dust. It’s undisturbed, no one has moved a thing in this place for some time.’
Harper lifted the corner of a magazine on the coffee table to see the outline imprinted on the surface below.
‘He might be the tidiest guy in San Diego but he should sack his cleaner. I checked the mailbox downstairs, there were takeaway food flyers sticking out, but nothing else.’
‘Why would you go to this much trouble to make the place look lived in?’ Lucas said opening the cutlery drawer.
‘Maybe he’s on vacation?’
‘I suppose he could be. He might be the nervous type who goes overboard to make it look as though the apartment is occupied.’
The toilet flushed.
Lucas ducked against the bedroom wall putting his finger up to his lips. Harper drew his gun. He motioned to Lucas who crossed the living room to the bathroom. He put his ear to the door. All he could hear was the sound of water filling the tank.
Lucas wrapped his hand around the handle and counted down with the fingers of his other hand– three, two, one.
He threw open the door and Harper charged inside, his weapon levelled at head height. It was empty.
Harper lowered his gun and the two men looked around.
The bathroom was in the same condition as the rest of the apartment, with one notable exception. The top of the toilet was missing and a small solenoid valve was connected to the plunger. Two wires ran from the top of the valve to a socket on the wall. In the socket was the same make of timer used in the bedroom.
‘Not seen one of these before,’ Lucas said, allowing his heart rate to die down.
‘Putting your lights on automatic is one thing but wiring up your toilet is extreme. Why would you do that?’
Lucas rubbed his chin. ‘It solves the problem of whether or not he’s on vacation.’
‘How come?’
‘This tells us he’s not on vacation.’
‘How are you so sure?’
‘He’s done this to use water,’ Lucas said. ‘He doesn’t live here so the water usage would be zero. This way he consumes water and it shows up on his utility bills.’
Harper looked at the timer. ‘It’s set to go off every two hours. Vickers might not be businessman of the year but he sure as hell is a clever bastard.’
‘He’s gone to an awful lot of trouble to make people think he lives here, but unfortunately for us the place is clean, there is nothing here.’
‘What next?’
There was a knock on the door and the sound of a key in the lock.
‘Shit!’ Lucas said as he rushed from bathroom, just in time to hear the front door open.
‘Hello … hello!’ bellowed a gravelly voice from the hallway.
Lucas came into view.
‘Who are you?’ said an elderly man dressed in a tracksuit, sporting five days of growth on his chin and a trilby hat. ‘Max said you were here to fix the lock?’
‘Max?’ Lucas was stumped.
Harper emerged from the bathroom closing the door behind him.
‘No, sir, that’s me. I’m the one fixing the lock. I guess Max is the neighbour in the running gear.’
‘Yeah that’s right, he said there was something wrong with the lock. First I heard about it.’
‘The person who owns the apartment called us direct. This is my supervisor.’ Harper pointed at Lucas. ‘For some reason he thinks it’s necessary to check up on me from time to time.’
Lucas acknowledged the old man with a nod of his head then picked up the clipboard and lifted the front sheet.
‘Yeah, very funny.’ Lucas gave Harper a sideways look. ‘We got a call from Mr Vickers saying his lock was sticking and could we take a look.’
‘I’m the janitor and I don’t know nothing about it.’
‘Well, as I said, Mr Vickers called us direct. We didn’t think to check with you first,’ Lucas said.
‘Oh, okay, I suppose,’ said the old man, ‘but I don’t see how he would know that.’
Lucas and Harper flashed a glance at each other.
‘Don’t see how he’d know what?’ replied Lucas.
‘That the lock was sticking.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Because he hasn’t been here in months. How he’d know it needed mending is beyond me.’
Lucas shrugged his shoulders. ‘He called the office and asked us to sort it out.’ Lucas consulted the blank clipboard again hoping the old man didn’t ask to see it. ‘He told me to put the invoice into his mailbox downstairs, so he must pick up his mail sometimes?’
‘He gets his mail okay.’
‘That’s good, would hate for him to miss it. So Mr Vickers comes to collect it?’
‘No, some kid does it for him, comes in every Wednesday morning and takes it away. The kid must have a forwarding address.’
‘We are about done here, sorry if we’ve caused any inconvenience,’ said Harper picking up his toolbox and making for the door.
Lucas thanked the old man and headed out, with Harper in hot pursuit. They needed to revise their plan. It was 9.20am and today was Wednesday.
16
Lucas sat in the reception of Maple Crescent. He had persuaded the janitor to allow him to wait until the mail was picked up to ensure the invoice went to the right place. A thin excuse for loitering with intent but it worked all the same.
The reception was decorated with minimalist flair, with a bank of silver-fronted mailboxes built into the wall opposite, each with a gold number and a lock. Number forty-six had a bunch of takeaway menus poking out of the top, as did the majority of them. Lucas read the free newspaper and drank his coffee.
Harper had gone back to the apartment to change, not wanting to spend the rest of the day dressed as a comedy maintenance man. He stood outside the entrance, leaning against the
wall, also reading a newspaper. It was 10am.
For Lucas the passage of time was slow. The three clocks mounted on the wall behind the desk telling the time in London, New York and Paris ticked in unison, marking every second as it rolled by. For Harper the passing of time was a far more pleasurable experience. He had long since stopped reading his paper and was happily admiring the view. The women in San Diego sure knew how to dress for work.
At 10.35 a kid, who must have been about fourteen, stopped at the doors to the apartment block. He bent down and fiddled with the laces on his sneakers, then rummaged through a bag slung across his body, then went back to attend to his laces. Lucas saw him. Harper saw him.
A man in a blue suit came out of the elevator and hit the exit button. The door released and he strode out onto the sidewalk. The boy straightened up and caught the door as it began to close. He stepped inside. The same door dodge as Harper had used hours earlier, perfectly executed.
Lucas made eye contact with Harper over the top of his newspaper.
The boy stood in front of the mailboxes with his back to Lucas. He was doing something with his hands and stuffing paper into his bag. Lucas moved forward.
‘Hey son, do you have a minute?’
The boy swivelled round and stared at Lucas with a look of horror on his face. He snapped his bag shut and darted for the doors. He struck the green button and squeezed himself through the gap as they started to open.
The boy ran up the street closely followed by Harper. Lucas no longer walked with a stick but a brisk stroll was all he could manage, so he quickly gave up the chase. Harper wasn’t faring much better. In a race between a fourteen-year-old boy scared for his life and a fifty-seven-year-old alcoholic, there was only going to be one winner. Harper was fine over the first thirty yards, then his body yelled stop. He was panting like a porn star and about to be reacquainted with his breakfast when he stumbled into the road. A yellow cab screeched to a halt. The driver wound down his window.
‘Hey, buddy, you gonna get yourself killed.’
